


life goes on

by selflessbellamy



Series: comes and goes [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Depression, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, Mental Health Issues, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:13:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26699605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/selflessbellamy/pseuds/selflessbellamy
Summary: He has fewer bad days now because each time he looks at her, he’s reminded of his purpose. In the world, there is someone small and precious who depends on him. The way he loves her is so different from the way that he loves Clarke, yet the three of them are bound together. This unit that they form, it makes him the happiest that he’s ever been… For a while.Shortly after Ava’s third birthday, Bellamy’s medication stops working.(or: Bellamy becomes a dad. His life changes. His brain doesn't.)[A companion fic to 'comes and goes (in waves)']
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Series: comes and goes [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1942888
Comments: 15
Kudos: 154





	life goes on

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bellofthetolppl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellofthetolppl/gifts).



> hi lovelies 💕
> 
> let me just start off by saying a huge **THANK YOU** for all of the BFWA nominations for 'comes and goes (in waves)'. it truly warms my heart. it also reminded me of how much i missed writing for this fic and how therapeutic it was for me. for this little companion piece, i decided to show a chapter of bellamy and clarke's life pre-epilogue from bell's perspective. i think that's something that the fic lacked. 
> 
> trigger warnings for mentions of and references to major depression/depressive episodes & prison.
> 
> (fic title is from 'ob-la-di, ob-la-da' by the beatles)

It’s the dream that Bellamy has a week before that makes him wonder if he’s psychic.

During the years that he spent in prison, every nice dream that he had faded into oblivion at the moment he opened his eyes, filling him with dread. Only the nightmares stayed with him; his loved ones sobbing over him, blood on his hands, empty gazes, and hollow smiles. Later, he learned that it was the depression that did that to him, which made sense no matter how unwanted it was. The illness followed him, even once the physical bars were gone. 

Nightmares are still the only thing he remembers from his sleep. That is, until he sees himself from a third party perspective — like he sometimes does during a horrible panic attack — with a hand on Clarke’s rounded belly. Smiling ever-so-softly. When he stirs awake, the image is fresh in his mind. There were no words to accompany it; just that _one_ absurd picture. 

It freaks him out. For a multitude of reasons. 

Firstly, there’s the fact that _Clarke can’t be pregnant._ No, she just can’t. It’s completely out of the question. Or, at least, that’s what he tells himself, over and over, as he goes about his workday at the plant nursery. He fixes roses in romantic bouquets, cutting himself on the thorns while thinking, _No way… No way._

Secondly, it’s obvious that _he can’t be a dad._ His current state of mind refuses to wrap itself around that possibility. Though he’s improved a lot in the last two years, Diyoza has officially diagnosed him with chronic depression, which makes every unpredictable occurrence in his life feel like shell-shock. Since receiving the diagnosis, he’s been trying to sort himself out, throwing himself into things that make him feel good and comfortable. Routine is especially therapeutic. 

“You’re awfully quiet today, Bellamy,” Niylah says, opening a bag of fertilizer. 

“Yeah, well… I’m just thinking.” 

Fortunately for him, his co-worker is empathetic enough to not constantly pester him with questions about his mental health. Instead, she does her best to soothe him by simply _being there._ Her presence is the exact opposite of overwhelming, and it’s a nice distraction from his tumultuous mind. 

“You can _do_ that?” she teases, and Bellamy throws a bit of fertilizer at her shoulder in retaliation. 

For the rest of the shift, he’s alright. 

Then, as he’s about to leave, he tosses a glance over his shoulder at Luna locking up, but his eyes catch the hand-painted sign instead and single out the word _nursery._ Dear God… 

Forcing himself to look ahead, he reminds himself that he has about fifteen fucking minutes to return to normal before he has to face Clarke at their apartment. 

When he gets there, she’s on the couch, eating the sorry leftovers of discounted Valentine’s Day chocolate. He tries not to overthink it and fails miserably, busies himself by cooking dinner. 

Their wedding photo on the fridge catches his attention as the Mac & Cheese bubbles in the oven. 

( _Bellamy would’ve worried himself to shreds if it hadn’t been for his best men:_

_Miller and Lincoln side-eyed each other at the corner of the room as he scrambled to find his socks._

_“Dude, relax for a second.”_

_“No, you relax!” he all but screamed, baring his teeth._

_After Miller’s failed attempt, Lincoln stepped forward, put his hands on his shoulders._

_“Hey, I know. I get it. She’s the woman of your dreams. Literally._

_You told me about her as if she were far away; like she was the stars that you couldn’t see._

_But you’re not in there anymore, Man._

_She’s yours. You get to live now._

_Enjoy it.”)_

Smiling at the memory, he takes off his mittens and joins his wife in the living room. She’s channel-surfing, settles on a Hallmark movie once he plops down next to her. During their teenage years, she loved them. Now, she frowns at the screen, and he has to wonder if she’s lost her taste for them since he went to prison. 

_Not everything is about you._ It’s frustrating, but he has to remind himself of that quite frequently. Even though Diyoza has told him that self-centeredness is a survival mechanism that he’s carried with him into ‘the world outside’, it still makes him feel like shit. 

Clarke puts her feet in his lap, but he can only rub them with one hand because Athena is demanding his attention from the left. 

“Look, Thena, if you could just give your dad _one second_...”

Since they got married, they’ve been jokingly referring to the cat as their kid and he’s never thought anything of it, but now it breeds a weird feeling in the pit of his stomach. Still, he ignores it, scratches the feline’s chin. _Babies and cats, how different can they be, really?_

(Oh, they just happen to be on opposite ends of the scale.) 

Bellamy remembers being five years old and waking up to his little sister’s wails in the middle of the night, how small she was in the crib, how she depended on him whenever his mom was late at work. 

Those memories are churning in his brain as they go to bed that night. So, when their goodnight kiss turns hot and passionate, he can’t bring himself to follow through; instead, he lies, tells her that he’s not in the mood. 

After hours of tossing and turning, he wakes up at 6 AM and calls the only person that he knows is also awake at this godforsaken time. _Lincoln._ Their shared experiences have left them with shared habits. Not sleeping well is one of them. 

Bellamy steps out on the balcony when his friend picks up. “ _What’s up?_ ” 

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he sighs, “I could use a talk and some very strong espresso.” 

After being released last year, Lincoln was employed at a local coffee shop. Six months later, the old manager decided to leave to start another business, and she entrusted the place to Lincoln who couldn’t have been more shocked. Regardless, he loves it (“It keeps me busy, you know?” There’s no question about it: Bellamy does know. Always.)

 _Yellow_ by Coldplay is flowing through the speakers as Bellamy enters the shop, the February wind stuck to his back. Lincoln locks the door after him, then leads the way to their favorite table in the right corner of the room.

“You sounded quite tense on the phone,” he states.

Bellamy warms his hands on the mug, swallows hard. “Yes, um… it’s—I think Clarke might be pregnant.” 

Lincoln raises his eyebrows. “What makes you think so?” 

Sure, Lincoln always understands, but Bellamy still doesn’t want to say that the only concrete reason for his worry is a dream that he had. “I don’t know, it’s just a feeling. A strong one. And it’s really affecting me.”

“Because you’re scared.”

Nodding, Bellamy turns his gaze to the coffee swirling in his mug, to hide the shame that’s biting at him. If he, by any chance, actually got Clarke pregnant, he should just own up to it, not let himself be swallowed by fear. 

A moment later, his friend’s warm fingertips graze his wrist, making him meet his gaze. “I think your biggest issue is that you don’t think you’re good enough. You think that you’ll never be. And yet, you have a wife who’s chosen you. Over and over again. That doesn’t correlate, does it?” 

“I guess not.” 

“No, it doesn’t. She believes in you, in your goodness. It exists _,_ Bellamy.” 

Suddenly, he has to blink away the tears that begin to cloud his eyes. “Maybe, but what does this have to do with her being pregnant?” 

At that question, a small smile forms on Lincoln’s lips. “If you want to be a good father, you have to start believing in your own goodness, too. You have to be confident in it, show it to your kid every day so that’s how they see you. And, after experiencing what we have experienced, reaching that point of forgiveness for yourself is _hard work._ We still have a ways to go on that front.” 

Sometimes Bellamy forgets, but Octavia can certainly attest to the fact that Lincoln also struggles with self-loathing. Three months ago, they had their first blowout fight after he was released, which culminated in him packing a duffel bag and leaving the apartment. He made it three blocks before she caught up to him, yelling ‘ _Pull your head out of your ass and come back inside!’_

Bellamy needs to pull his head out of his ass now, too. 

Digging his hand into his pocket, he finds his phone, dials Clarke. Her sleepy grunt at the other end of the line softens his heart. 

“Morning, Babe. What kind of muffin do you want with your breakfast?”

* * *

In the days that follow, Bellamy works on his mental health as much as possible: he tends to the mini garden on their balcony, re-reads _Reasons to Stay Alive,_ journals at night. Hell, he even goes down on his wife one morning without overthinking it. But the biggest progress shows when he goes grocery shopping on his own. A year ago, doing so would leave him shaking and panting violently, the anxiety trying to smother him. 

Now, he whistles along to the sweet tune stuck in his head, putting items in the cart as he wanders down the aisles. 

Before the line at the register, there is a basket full of stuffed animals designed to make every kid swoon. Normally, Bellamy would just walk past it without a second thought, but he slowly comes to a halt in front of it. A tiger has caught his eye, made him remember something: 

(“ _Oh, thank you so much! She won’t sleep without it… Look, Ciara!”_

_The woman wiggled the tiger in front of the toddler, making her smile and reach for it._

_“No no. Mommy’s gonna keep it until we get to the car so that you don’t drop it again._

_Can you say thank you?”_

_The little girl folded her small hands in front of her chin. “Thankyou,” she said quickly, shy.)_

He puts the tiger next to the frozen peas.

At home, he has to hide it in the closet in order to avoid questions, and his heart sinks a little when he slides the door closed, leaving the stuffed animal alone in the dark. 

* * *

Two days after buying the tiger, he wakes up to a highly unusual sight: Clarke isn’t in bed next to him. He scrambles to find his glasses on the nightstand, then slips off the mattress, wondering how much he overslept. It turns out, he didn’t: the digital green numbers tell him that it’s 6:22 AM, way too early for her Wednesday shift.

His heart starts pounding, his mind racing with too many panicked thoughts at once. He can’t make sense of any of them as he shoots into the hallway. “Clarke! Are you here?” 

A sniffle calls out to him from the living room. 

Alarmed, Bellamy turns to look at her: She’s hugging her legs on the couch, clutching a tissue in her fist, but her eyes aren’t wiped dry; they’re glistening with tears, and the sight makes him feel slightly nauseous. Despite that, he gathers himself, then walks in to crouch in front of her. “Hey... “ 

He caresses her knee with his thumb when she tries to avoid his gaze. 

Finally, she speaks, her voice strained, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” 

Nothing could possibly matter less to him right now. _Screw fear._ “Don’t worry about that. Please just tell me what’s wrong.” 

She swallows hard. “I’m pregnant, I—”

Fortunately, Bellamy anticipates the rush of anxiety and is able to power through it; this time, it doesn’t leave him rigid. Nevertheless, it’s difficult to translate his thoughts into words while they’re whirling in his mind. Because it’s taking him too long to respond, Clarke chokes out a rushed explanation, “Trust me, I had no idea, but then I fainted at the clinic and they did my blood work and—”

His heart jumps. “You fainted?”

Giving his hands a comforting squeeze, Clarke manages a smile through the tears. “I’m okay, Bell.” 

Something about that statement fills him with the courage that he so desperately needs. He returns the squeeze, meets her eyes. “Yeah, and we’re gonna be okay, too. I promise you that.” After saying this, he sits down next to her, presses a tender kiss to her cheek. “I haven’t loved you all this time for nothing,” is what he adds, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. 

Finally, he asks her how she’s feeling. He can’t imagine how shocking it must’ve been for her to find out like this, and his stomach lurches when he thinks about him not being there. In his vows, he’d sworn that he’d be. Forever. 

( _“Every precious second that I have with you,_

_I will treasure it like the first drop of water to dry soil._

_Let it remind me of how lucky I am to exist_

_and belong to you.”)_

Bringing them to his lips, he kisses her knuckles. 

It takes them a couple of weeks to grow into the new reality. For a few days, they don’t even mention it; they fumble and stumble trying to make sense of it on their own. Maybe it’s just natural for them to deal with changes by themselves. After all, they’ve been used to it for years, but they’re _married_ now. They’re never going to be alone again. 

Above all else, that is the most difficult thing to grasp. 

One afternoon, Clarke finds the tiger in the closet, brings it to the dining table, and puts it down next to his laptop. “What’s this guy’s name?” Her voice is soft, vulnerable. 

His heart swells. Shifting on his chair, he replies, “That’s not really for me to decide, but he looks like an _Artie_ to me.” 

“Like Artemis?” Clarke teases; the amusement in her voice lifts the weight from his shoulders.

“Possibly.”

They drink mint tea together (Lately, she scrunches up her nose at the mere scent of coffee) and then book the first ultrasound appointment. 

* * *

This heartbeat is the sweetest sound that Bellamy’s ever heard. He has to talk himself out of asking the technician if there’s any way to convert the rhythm to a ringtone for his phone. 

Every time he goes shopping, he has to steer away from the baby aisle. The budding excitement in his chest remains a victim to the possible tragedy. It sure as hell wouldn’t be the first time that he’s felt happiness crumble between his fingers. Somehow, he got through that, but he knows that this wouldn’t be the same. There is so much more at stake.

His _family._

Clarke reaches 14 weeks, and while he feels like leaping several feet into the air from relief, she groans because she can’t button her jeans anymore. Stepping up behind her, he wraps his arms around her middle, kisses her shoulder as he meets her gaze in the mirror. “You’re glowing, Princess.”

At the compliment, her cheeks flush. “Nah, it’s just the sun in here.”

“Nope.”

For breakfast, he makes her the only thing that she can stomach lately: Blueberry pancakes. 

They tell her parents on a Sunday. For a lot of reasons, they choose not to make a show out of it; there’s no test hidden in a box or a set of baby clothes to unwrap. At this point, Clarke has to wear Bellamy’s sweaters to hide the small bump on her abdomen, and she still seems nervous, clutching his hand underneath the table as she interrupts the meal. “Um, Bellamy and I have something to tell you.” 

Abby puts down her fork with a smile, shares a look with her husband whose eyes are full of crystals.

Her jaw slackening, Clarke stares at them. “You know?” When the response is a delighted ‘Of course, we do’, she exclaims, “But _how_?” and Bellamy has to choke his laughter in a napkin. She’s so cute when she’s confused. 

Offering another portion of peach cobbler to her husband, Abby says, “Oh, I don’t know, Sweetheart. Maybe it’s the way you’ve been stammering over the phone and how _he—_ ” her eyes spark teasingly as they move to Bellamy. “—seemed so worried that you were gonna trip over the doorstep.”

Heat rises to his cheeks when Clarke lets out a sigh. “I’ve told him to stop fussing.”

“Well, that won’t happen,” Bellamy mutters, and Jake knocks his foot in sympathy under the table. 

While they clear out after dessert, they all take turns describing what they think the baby will look like and reach the unanimous agreement that dark, curly hair with blue eyes would be the cutest thing ever. Still, Abby and Clarke use their knowledge in genetics to counter that the chance of that happening is very slim. 

They decide to keep the sex of the baby a surprise like everything else. It just seems right, and it also compels them to buy gender-neutral clothes and toys. They turn Raven’s old room into a nursery, and she insists on coming over to paint the walls herself. Armed with paintbrushes, she and Octavia dub themselves ‘Team Auntie.’ Their main mission is making sure that Clarke doesn’t move a finger.

“I hate this,” Clarke grumbles, stuck to the couch with her sketches. “I wanna paint.” 

“The fumes are a no-go,” Lincoln reminds her, adding, “I really love this design. What’s your idea behind it?”

At the question, Clarke instantly perks up; it makes a smile bloom on Bellamy’s lips that soon grows sad, as she explains, “Well, the stars were… I mean, they were the only thing that we had in common while he was… It speaks to everything that we’ve overcome to be here, you know?”

Bellamy remembers the first night that he saw her again; how the violent tremors threatened to make him collapse, so he found the stars, sprinkled across the frosty sky. Then he heard her speak, so distant even though she was right next to him:

(“ _You’re not sleeping at Murphy’s tonight. I don’t want you to. Please…”)_

At the time, he wanted to refuse her offer. Now, he can’t bear the thought of how different his life would be if he had. To his luck, her determination has always been strong enough to sway him, to pull him in regardless of how badly he wanted to disappear. Even six years of loneliness, of hopelessness, was not enough to shake her off his mind. Or his heart. 

In two days, the baby’s room is transformed into a mellow world of golden stars and violet clouds. 

There’s a white rocking chair in the corner. He goes to sit in it, folds his arms in a protective curve. 

_“I can’t wait to hold you,”_ he whispers. 

* * *

When he finally does hold his _daughter,_ it’s at the end of a sleepless day. Clarke’s water broke at 2:30 am, and since then they’ve been trying to keep it together, walking up and down the hallway until the doctors decided that it was time for her to check into the hospital. As soon as the strong scent of antiseptic reaches Bellamy’s nostrils, anxiety kicks in, almost knocks him flat. 

If it weren’t for his wife clinging to his arm, the dizziness would’ve overpowered him at that moment. Despite the nine months of vehement preparation, there’s a small, panicked part of him that wants to sound the alarm, curl up in a corner and say, ‘ _I’m not ready.’_

Instead of kicking himself for that; instead of calling himself a coward, he turns to his Clarke, knowing that she might be struggling with similar emotions. “Look, this is fucking terrifying, but it’s all going to be alright.”

She smiles, then clenches her jaw through a contraction. 

Many hours later, the doctors end up having to perform a C-section because the progression of the labor stalled, but once it’s started, there’s no way of reversing it. Tonight will be the night; it’ll just happen differently than expected. Abby, dressed in her PJ’s, talks her daughter through the process while Bellamy tries to suppress his panic next to Jake. 

“Hey, Son,” he whispers, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “This is where you need to wield all of your strength for both of them, alright? I know you can do that.”

Bellamy nods, worrying his lower lip. Then, after taking a deep, steadying breath, he goes to kiss his wife on the forehead. “I’ll be right next to you the entire time.” 

Once Clarke has been wheeled into the operation room, time passes in a blur. He stays close enough to hear her every breath, to whisper soothing nonsense in her ear that he doesn’t remember a word of when the wail cuts through the air. It’s deafening but… _wonderful._ Tears fill his eyes, his body’s trembling to sustain the need to laugh or sob or both. 

Then the announcement rings out, “it’s a girl!” and Bellamy thinks the bliss might be entirely too much to handle. The only moment in his life that he can compare it to is when she put on the ring that he thought he’d never give to her. When she chose him.

More than anything else, _love_ has turned his life around. 

Their daughter stops crying when she’s placed on Clarke’s chest, and only then does Bellamy pluck up the courage to brush a hand across her small back: Her skin is warm, soft; her lips tiny yet plumb. She’s so _precious_ , it’s unreal. For a moment, he’s tempted to pinch himself to make sure that he isn’t stuck in the dream that he had last week.

When their girl makes her first needy whimper, Clarke beams at him. The tears of joy are like raindrops on her cheeks. “Look what we did, Bell.”

“I know.”

_It’s unbelievable._

A couple of hours later, Bellamy has his first moment with their daughter. _Ava Lily Blake._ At first, Clarke refused to sleep, not wanting to miss a moment, but the exhaustion has finally won. As quietly as possible, he lifts his baby girl out of the hospital crib and carries her to the nursing chair at the corner of the room.

Though she’s at a healthy weight, she seems so fragile. Still, cradling her comes naturally to Bellamy. He wants to think that it’s because fatherhood is in his blood, but it’s most likely because he’s taken care of Octavia.

Ava’s tiny eyelids flutter, making his heart swell. _Everything_ about her makes his heart swell and flutter. 

“Hey, Bean,” he whispers, his voice hoarse with emotion. “I’m gonna be honest with you… I’m terrified, and I’m probably gonna mess this up. More than once. I’ve done bad things, but—” he brushes a fingertip across Ava’s hand, swallows the tight lump in his throat. “But one thing is for sure. You’re the most important person in my life. Now and forever, okay? I love you so much. And I promise I’ll do whatever I can to make you proud of me.” 

Tears are streaming down his cheeks; it’s cathartic, in a way, to think of all the pain that he’s endured over the years and know that he’s made it to this point. This small bundle in his arms is proof that every bruise, every broken bone, has been worth it. 

Ava opens her eyes, focuses on him for the fraction of a second. Long enough for him to notice the deep shade of blue that colors her irises. By any chance, she’ll have brown eyes. She was also born with a full head of curly, dark hair. Abby swooned when she saw it. 

And she isn’t the last one to do so. The next day, their room is flooded with guests: Luna, Raven, Octavia, Lincoln, Miller and Murphy, the latter of whom insists that the girl looks like him for some reason (Raven scoffs, “When you have a mini Bellamy tugging at your ankles in eight months, you’ll be sorry that you ever made this comment. You’re never gonna live it down.”)

The last guest to come for a visit is Diyoza. And even though her expression is much softer when she looks at the baby, she seems to be more concerned with Bellamy and Clarke. She asks persistent questions about how they’re feeling, about how much sleep they got last night, if they’re eating properly. 

When Bellamy works up the courage to ask why they’re being interrogated, Diyoza says, “You’re both at risk for postpartum depression. Especially you, Bellamy.”

“Me?” he chokes out, cradling Ava’s head. 

“Yeah, men get it, too. It just often goes undiagnosed because there isn’t much focus on how the _dad_ feels after the birth of their child. You need to remember your meds, okay?”

He almost forgot to take it this morning in between diaper-changes, Ava’s first bath, and the nursing that he wanted to present for. Naturally, he doesn’t want to miss a single second — the thought of doing so breeds guilt in the pit of his stomach — so the little capsule that he has to take feels like more of a burden than usual. Fortunately, he could take it next to the hospital bed, drown it in water from a plastic cup. 

Because he needs it; there’s no denying that anymore. 

He just wishes that he didn’t… 

* * *

Bellamy doesn’t develop postpartum depression, but his anxiety increases for the first couple of months; he wakes up at least once an hour to check on her, stresses out about how cold or hot she feels, worries himself to bits every time she doesn’t want to eat. Slowly, as he gets to know her better, the anxiety subsides little by little. 

Her every smile is etched into his memory, and her giggles warm his heart. 

He has fewer bad days now because each time he looks at her, he’s reminded of his purpose. In the world, there is someone small and precious who depends on him. The way he loves her is so different from the way that he loves Clarke, yet the three of them are bound together. This unit that they form, it makes him the happiest that he’s ever been… For a while. 

Shortly after Ava’s third birthday, Bellamy’s medication stops working. 

Depression descends on him like a shadow, and the darkness has surrounded him before he’s even had time to realize what’s happening. It creeps up to take full control of him again, and suddenly he can’t find the energy to do anything. Because of this, Clarke has to do it all: Work, cook, clean, get Ava ready for bed, wake her up. 

In the morning, his daughter stands by the bedroom door and says, “Bye, Dada!” before she leaves for kindergarten. 

It takes every ounce of his strength to reply, “Have a nice day, Bug!” And then, as soon as the front door is shut, he breaks into tears. _I’m such a lousy father_ , _can’t even get up to give my daughter a kiss goodbye._ She deserves so much better than this. So much better than him. 

When his family returns several hours later, Bellamy listens for the sound of light, quick footsteps on the floorboards. Ava’s usually well-rested from her nap by the time Clarke picks her up, so she’s in the mood to play once she comes home. Like her mom, she loves art and already owns a vast collection of coloring books. 

He manages a smile, hearing her step into her room, but she doesn’t call for her mom or ask for ‘crayon’ as she always does. Instead, she soon runs back out, pauses by her parents’ bedroom door again. “See Dada, Mommy!”

Bellamy’s heart skips a beat. 

“Sweetheart, Daddy’s not feeling well.”

But Ava persists, “ _No._ See Dada!” before pushing the door open in protest. She waltzes — or rather _wobbles_ — in wearing her favorite kitty PJ’s, clutching Artie the Tiger close to her chest. When she reaches the bedside, she pouts. “Up.” 

Bellamy’s chest tightens when he tries to smile. “Up, huh?” Scooting back a little, he leans over the edge to lift her onto the mattress next to him. 

Right away, she curls against his chest, placing her small hand on his arm as if to make sure that he doesn’t go away. He presses a kiss to the top of her head, ignores his quivering heart. “Hi honey. Did you have a good day?”

“I fell.” 

Her fragile voice makes it hard for him to breathe. Still, he refuses to let it show, caressing her back. “Fell? Where’d you fall?” 

“Slide.”

From behind the door, Clarke speaks up, “No, swing. You wanted to do it by yourself, didn’t you?” 

Once again, Ava nods, and adds, “It hurt. Knees.” 

Every day, Bellamy is impressed by her vocabulary, even though she hasn’t mastered the art of stringing sentences together yet. He’s never heard her say ‘knees’ before, though, and it pains him that she might’ve learned the word while he wasn’t paying attention to her. 

“Oh no. Did they give you a band-aid?”

When Ava furrows her brow in confusion, Clarke responds for her. “No, it was only a scrape.”

“Scape,” the girl tries to echo, making her mom chuckle. 

A minute of silence passes during which Ava stubbornly tries to hand Artie over to Bellamy. In the end, he decides to take him just to make her smile. When she does, his heart becomes a little lighter. Desperate for the relief, he makes the tiger kiss his daughter’s nose and forehead, resulting in her beautiful giggles. 

_God, he’s missed that sound._

This time, there’s nothing devastating about it because they’re here. Together. And he doesn’t feel useless. He can still make her laugh. Maybe that’s all that matters. 

As blissful as that moment is, it’s broken when Ava asks, “You sick, Daddy?” The question strikes his chest like a knife. _Fuck._

_Don’t cry. Don’t cry._

Leaning his forehead against hers, he breathes out. “Yeah, Honey. I’m sick, but I’m going to get better, okay?… I promise.”

“Okay.” 

Searching for comfort, Ava wraps her arms around his shoulders, and his instincts kick in; tenderness floods his chests as he pulls her closer, buries his nose in her hair. “I love you, baby girl.”

Soon after, a small miracle occurs. When his daughter decides to slip out of bed, Bellamy does, too. With each step, the ground seems closer to caving in beneath his feet, but he clenches his jaw and makes it to the door. His body feels heavy yet drained like an airless balloon, and the sight of tears in Clarke’s eyes just makes it all ten times worse. 

Her fingers interlace with his. There is so much that he wishes he could say and do. The warmth of her skin tugs at his heartstrings; he wants to be wrapped up with her, wants to remind her of his love which is as powerful as it ever was. But a part of him believes that he is far too broken to do any of that. 

“Hey…” Clarke whispers.

“Hey,” he chokes back, his voice fraying at the edges. Before he can say anything else, Ava tugs him into the living room where Clarke has arranged her favorite coloring book on a blanket. 

Lying down, Ava turns to an uncolored design and squeals, “Dino!” at the sight of the Triceratops, but she doesn’t offer her parents a single glance. From that moment on, she’s engrossed in the vivid imagination that compels her to cover the dinosaur in various shades of blue, green, and red. 

Bellamy takes a deep breath, trying to remember what Diyoza has told him to do to cope with moments of intense self-loathing. 

_I am a good person,_ he forces himself to repeat in his head, over and over like a mantra while he unclenches his jaw. _I am not my mistakes._

Clarke’s still holding his hand. _I am a husband. And a father._

When he opens his eyes, tears are blurring his vision, distorting his view of Ava, and he hates everything about that. He doesn’t want to see the people he loves through sadness, through his illness. 

Leaning in, Clarke whispers, “Is it really hard right now?”

He nods, tense with anger as the tears pour from his eyes despite his intent on holding them back. Although his time in prison taught him that it’s not healthy to suppress the human need to cry, he still wants to do so for the sake of his daughter. A child as young as her shouldn’t see their parent cry every damned day; he’s afraid that it will worry her, maybe even scare her. 

And Clarke seems to be in the same boat. “Sweetheart, we’re gonna go make dinner, okay?” At first, Ava ignores this, but then her mom speaks up again, more sternly, “Did you hear me?”

“Ya.” 

“Good.” 

Once they’re hidden behind the walls of the kitchen, Clarke dries the remaining tears off his cheeks, then wraps her arms around him. They haven’t hugged in the last two days, which is how long that he’s been in this dark pit, but it feels like an eternity. An eternity without touch, of sleeping with their backs to each other. And he can’t help but think that it’s all his fault. 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, holding her tighter. 

“It’s okay, Bellamy,” she says, not because she believes that the apology is warranted but because denying very real emotions doesn’t heal anything. They’ve had many sessions with Diyoza to try and understand this. “Do you wanna cook dinner with me?”

Cooking is probably their favorite thing to do together. It’s a nice way to destress after a long day of work; it allows them some time to catch up, to slow down and talk about everything under the sun. Tonight, however, the process is oddly silent. Instead of being dominated by words, it’s filled with small touches: Her hand grazes his back as she crouches to search for a pan; he kisses the back of her neck before he pours salt into the boiling water. 

When it comes to reconnecting, touching has always been their go-to solution. 

He still remembers their collision in the CVS, the way her hand found its way to his cheek as though it had never left. It makes him emotional, and yet he can’t describe it. He can only rub her shoulder as they carry the meal to the dinner table. 

While they eat, their feet are grazing underneath the table. 

Then they brush Ava’s teeth and get her ready for bed. As soon as she’s sitting on the mattress, she pulls her favorite night time story off the shelf and places it in Bellamy’s lap. “Dada read.” 

For a second, he meets Clarke’s eyes. She smiles. “You’re clearly the better narrator. She fell asleep before I’d even finished last night.”

“Well, isn’t that the point?” he counters, managing a slight grin. 

“Not if you’re Ava, it isn’t.”

Next to Bellamy, the girl is growing impatient as is obvious from her crossed arms and furrowed brow. So, he takes a breath and starts, “Willa was tired, so Willa went to bed…” 

* * *

Bellamy and Clarke consider it a gift from the universe that their daughter never takes long to fall asleep. Within minutes of her dad closing the book, Ava’s eyelids are already drooping, and the only thing that keeps her from drifting off is not being tucked in. Though his heart feels heavier than usual, Bellamy takes care of this part, too, makes sure to return Artie before he kisses her forehead and closes the door, leaving the night light on. 

This leaves Clarke and him to wash the pots in the kitchen. 

The silence between them persists for a minute, so there’s nothing for him to focus on except his trembling hands. Holding onto the dish towel is a struggle. 

Seconds later, Clarke murmurs, “Hey, look at me.”

Hesitant, he turns to face her, and she grabs his hands immediately, leans her forehead against his. A broken breath escapes her lips. “Promise me you’ll go to the doctor tomorrow. We have to find out what’s wrong so that you can get the help you need.” 

Though he can see the logic in her statement, his perception of what’s possible has been warped by the hollow hopelessness that’s been controlling him for days now. His jaw twitches as he holds her gaze. “What if…?” He swallows hard, trying to keep his voice from breaking. “What if I’m just broken and that’s the reason the Prozac no longer works? What if I’ve just gotten worse?” 

_… and there’s no way out of it for me anymore?_ The last part of the sentence doesn’t make it past his lips. 

At first, Clarke kisses his knuckles, but that soft action is contrasted by the hard, serious look that conquers her eyes. “Even if that’s the case, it’s no reason for you to stop fighting for yourself and the people who love you.” 

His depressed mind searches for a flaw in her argument but finds none. 

“I love you, Bellamy,” she says, squeezing his shoulders as she stresses each word. “Ava loves you.”

“And I love both of you,” he replies, brushing his fingers through the soft waves at the back of her head. “I’d never think of leaving you, I hope you know that, no matter how hard it gets.”

“I know.”

Sure, sometimes his world seems bleak and even pointless. Sometimes, he wonders if his loved ones would be better off if he went somewhere else, but the answer is always _no. Of course they wouldn’t._ He’s experienced enough loss to know that it’s never a relief. It breeds pain, suffering. If he needs reasons to stay, to fight, he can always find them. 

In his daughter’s smile. In his wife’s eyes. In the sun that peeks through the clouds, and the flowers blooming on the balcony. The smallest things, they matter. They are the most precious, most colorful parts of life. 

And they are countless.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading! 💕
> 
> if you liked it, i'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments. reading them really makes my day. 
> 
> // jo


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